


Rain Before Midnight

by ealcynn



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce is kind of a dick, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 12:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3851512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ealcynn/pseuds/ealcynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, Batman can't be saved. What will it take to make Clark understand?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Battle violence and description of injuries. Fun times!

  _Tis now the very witching time of night,_  
_When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out_  
_Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood._  
_And do such bitter business as the day_  
_Would quake to look on._

Hamlet 3.2

 

_He finally saw it._

_It was two weeks after Killer Croc had escaped from Arkham in his most recent bid to rule the Gotham criminal underworld. True, an escaped Killer Croc, especially one doped up Arkham’s finest antipsychotic drugs, wasn’t exactly a Joker-level emergency, but Batman wouldn’t be Batman if Arkham escapees were treated with anything less than single-minded obsession until they were caught. However, events outside Batman’s control – namely an extremist terrorist cell launching biochemical attacks on Berlin, an uprising on Phygar 8 and no less than three attempts by a jaded ex-government physicist to upset the balance of space- time by opening cross-dimensional portals into bank vaults – forced him to devote less than his complete attention to  Killer Croc’s antics._

_What that all amounted to was that by the time he returned to the cave to review the records of Croc’s actions over the past fortnight, he was already angry, exhausted, and nursing a cracked rib and bruising from where Hawkgirl had less than helpfully clipped him with her mace three days ago. It was an accident. Big deal, it still hurt. He’d been keeping up to date with Croc’s movements as best as he could via Oracle while he was away but it was only when he pulled the files up side by side on the screen did he see the pattern. It shouldn’t have taken that long. Croc had long ago proved to be so dense that light had to bend around him. There was no way he should be intellectually competent enough to have infiltrated five different organised crime groups in two weeks. There was no way he should be running rings round Batman. Bruce rubbed his face, and then he saw it._

_He finally saw it. Croc had interacted with five different crime groups in the last two weeks, from small timers to big action players. He been involved in general thuggery at a scrap between two illegal chemical smuggling groups, joined in gangs involved in human trafficking and worked with the go between for a dealer in stolen electronics. It all seemed too random, and that was the pattern. It was too random. Croc wasn’t really trying to build up a position in the underworld, not with his loyalties flitting from group to group like that. It was a trap to draw him, Batman, out into the light. Croc was trying to be caught. Interesting. There was only one way to find out what the plan was, of course._

_Batman went out to catch him._

\---

“Master Bruce.”

A relentless voice, calling a name. His name?

“Wake up, sir. Please, wake up.”

Then a sudden odd sensation, an abrupt cessation of feeling he hadn’t even been aware of all over his body and everything around went very quiet and still.

“Master Bruce, wake up!”

He kept his eyes shut. If he said nothing, Alfred might leave. Alfred knew not to touch Bruce if he was partially unconscious and might be unable to tell friend from enemy. And that meant he had to recognise Alfred by name first; it was one of Bruce’s first rules. It didn’t do to startle someone with Batman’s reflexes. But this time, Bruce had no intention of responding.

“Master Bruce, can you hear me? Wake up!”

Then again, if he continued to ignore him, Alfred might call Dick or Clark. That would be unfortunate.

 “Alfred?” he mumbled.

“Yes, sir. That’s right, you’re safe now.”

The relief flowing off the butler as he moved closer was almost tangible. Bruce felt a warm hand on the icy cold skin of his bare shoulder, and opened his eyes to the dull metal of the cave’s industrial decontamination washroom. Like so much of Bruce’s life, function of design had long since anaesthetised aesthetics. His eye was drawn to the plug hole where the last of the water from the shower Alfred had turned off was flowing away. A trickle of blood running from his body met the water, and the red was transformed into a transient swirl of dull gold that gently spiralled towards the drain. It was oddly beautiful.

 “Come on, Master Bruce. We need to get you warm and patched up.”

He heard the odd echoes of Alfred’s voice when the other man spoke, and something cold dripped against the back of Bruce’s neck. The plumbing in the Batcave wasn’t perfect, but it normally functioned within acceptable levels. If the water in the shower had run cold, he must have been sitting here for an hour at least.

Alfred was crouched beside him now and was trying to get him to stand with hands under his arms. Bruce did his best, trying to push himself onto deadened legs and balance with clumsy, numb hands.

“That’s it, sir.” Alfred encouraged at his unsteady efforts, and between the pair of them managed to drag him, stumbling, from the shower cubicle. There was a sharp burn of hot pain from his malformed shoulder as he tried to balance. The three deep slashes across his stomach just felt numb.

Everything blurred a little then and suddenly he found himself sitting at the edge the low pallet in the med bay, wrapped in a warm terry cloth robe and a blanket while Alfred dried his hands and arms.

“I was reading when I heard the cave alert go off to indicate you’d returned, sir, but when you didn’t call up to say you needed anything I assumed you were just working late. I’m ashamed to say I dozed off and it was only when I just awoke and realised you hadn’t come up to the house yet that I thought something might be wrong.”

He didn’t comment, head spinning, and then Alfred was trying to get him to lie down.

“Those cuts are bleeding again, sir. You’ve only the cold to thank that you haven’t lost more blood already. You need to lie back and let me put some stitches...Master Bruce?” He hesitated as Bruce tensed.

 _No_ , Bruce wanted to say. _Don’t touch me._ He should push Alfred away, make him leave, make him get out while he still could. But his voice wouldn’t work and all he managed was a slight wobble of his head. Alfred mistakenly took it as an affirmative, and Bruce watched the shadowy ceiling spin gently overhead as the wound on his stomach burned first with alcohol and then with the gentle tugging of Alfred’s stitching. He submitted to Alfred’s tender mercies and felt like a traitor doing so. His night’s work was not yet done, and he had little time. He would allow Alfred’s treatment up to the point where he could function again, and no further. There would be time for rest afterwards.

_Afterwards._

Bruce only realised he’d passed out again when a bright light flickered across his retinas, and he heard Alfred’s distant voice, like an underwater echo.

“Master Wayne?”

Bruce blinked the after images of the penlight out of his eyes and the med bay swung back into view. Alfred’s forehead was creased with worry.

“How hard did you hit your head, sir? You’ve got quite a goose egg above your ear but your pupils seem equally responsive...”

“Leave it.” Bruce snapped, brushing his hand away. He noticed the fresh dressing across his abdomen and an ice-pack taped to his swollen right shoulder. Alfred was finished. Bruce climbed to his feet and managed two steps towards the cave before the world suddenly faded to grey and he was hanging all his weight off Alfred’s arm. The elderly butler just managed to haul him back onto the bed, and he slumped there.

“Try not to move, sir. Is it concussion?”

Bruce shook his dizzy head, and mumbled. “Need a blood test.”

Alfred paused. “Poison again?”

“It’s a modified fear toxin. Took me twelve minutes to administer the antidote, but it’s not breaking down well. I need to know how much is in my system -”

Bruce stopped suddenly and laughed; a horrible, empty sound. “Actually, it doesn't matter. Forget it.”

Alfred looked even more bewildered. “Sir?”

“Leave me alone!” Bruce snapped, twisting away around his aching wound.

Alfred frowned. “Master Wayne, you need to rest. You’ve lost a lot of blood –“

“I’m staying here. I have things to do.”

“Sir, you have to sleep off the effects of the toxin and blood loss, and you need to do so now. You’ve already passed out three times! It’s a wonder you got home at all.”

“If I have to sleep, I’ll sleep down here. Go away, Alfred!”

“Master Bruce!”

Bruce was suddenly tired, and so hollow he could barely bring himself to care anymore. Couldn’t Alfred see?

“Please,” he conceded quietly, looking up. “I just want to stay down here tonight. Please go away.”

Alfred was silent for about six seconds and then said; “Something bad happened out there, didn’t it?”

It wasn’t a question. Bruce just lay down and closed his eyes. He felt a blanket settle on top of him.

“Very well,” said Alfred, quietly. “I’ll come and check on you in a few hours. Sweet dreams, sir.”

There was silence.

\---

_If he hadn’t been wearing armour, the swipe of Croc’s new reinforced metallic claws across his belly would have ripped his insides out onto the dark concrete. As it was, Killer Croc’s attack still sliced straight through the joints between the Kevlar plating and through several layers of skin beneath. Batman felt the burn of the cut instantly transform into a cold wash of shocky pain. He could already feel the slickness of hot blood starting to well up under the suit. He didn’t think it was life threatening, but debilitating? Certainly. And he was already losing this fight. Croc swiped again, snarling with delight at the coppery tang of Batman’s blood in the air. Batman leapt back to avoid the claws and turned the stumble into a roll that took him out on to a ledge above the black river._

_Croc lunged again, but the grapple gun was ready and he fired high over Croc’s shoulder, the retract whisking him out of the range of the jaws. He swung onto the roof smoothly, though his torn abdominal muscles tensed a little with agony at the landing. He quickly stowed the grapple gun, crouching low. There was a scrape of metal on brick below as the creature clawed its way up after him, he also heard shouting below, and feet on stairs. Other thugs would be here soon. Batman stood to move back from the edge, to find the most defendable position but a sudden wave of light-headedness assaulted him. He staggered a little as the street lights below seemed to flare with a painful brightness, and the rooftop shadows swirled around his legs. The shouts in the stairwell became whispered taunts on the wind, ghosts and demons crawling into his head, making him angry, driving him mad._

\---

Exactly two hours and three minutes after Alfred had left him, Bruce woke up. Pain was pounding through his skull and sending shooting tendrils down his neck and shoulder. He ignored it, peeled the warm ice pack off and sat up. He felt the stitches under the bandage on his stomach pull painfully; he ignored it, and stood. His vision swam a little and nausea rolled in his stomach. He ignored it.

There was work to be done.

\---

Barbara Gordon stared at her computer in astonishment and building horror. Four hours earlier, at 0515, while she had been peacefully sleeping, a remote server had entered a command code into her system, which had instantly bypassed her firewall and nullified every encrypted security defence. At 0517, an upload instruction had been initiated from the same remote station, and now a little electronic bombshell, in the form of sixty-four terabytes of compressed data was sitting on her hard drive.

She didn’t touch it for the moment. First, she rechecked every firewall and ran a full system diagnosis. There were no flaws. It was as sabotage-proof as it had always been. As she already knew, there was no way to override the firewall from the outside. Secondly, any hacker, no matter how skilled, left evidence of their activities in a system as sophisticated as hers, and there was nothing. Not even a ghost of a digital fingerprint. Nothing had been downloaded or stolen from her own system either. She checked every contact and every informant, even the Pentagon defence network, for similar recent activity on such a scale. There was nothing. It was like someone breaking into Fort Knox just to leave a bunch of flowers and complementary fruit basket.

Only then did Barbara trace the origin of the remote instruction and the code that had started the upload. But of course. The hacker hadn’t gotten around the firewall at all. They just remotely activated a pre-existing protocol hidden deep into the basic operating code of the system, a code planted long before Barbara had been given the equipment by-

She opened the data file.

Blue prints. Journals. Records. Crime stats and design specs and lists of names, addresses, aliases and informants. CCTV footage, contingency plans, financial accounts, computer viruses, psychoanalytical and pharmacopeia articles, databases of fingerprints, ballistics and gang tattoos. Thousands of experiments with nonivamide, Kevlar, pancuronium, compressed gases, kryptonite, C4.  Files on the Justice League, magic, Lex Luthor, Judo, bent cops, gun running, Cadmus, hypnotism, structural engineering. Files on Barbara Gordon. Files on Bruce Wayne.

 _Everything_.

With a trembling hand, she picked up the phone.

\---

_A scream of sheering metal, and the rusted fire-escape below tore from the wall and fell away, but not before Croc’s super- strengthened claws punched into the brickwork and the beast hauled himself over the roof edge. Batman clenched his teeth. Why couldn’t Croc just stay down? What was the point of all this pain and blood? It was infuriating, maddening...he shook his head, trying to drive away the dizziness and nausea, noting sudden tachycardia and a rise in body temperature. The shadows loomed around him and they were waiting for him the dark... Something was wrong. This reaction was more than just blood loss._

_He clawed back his control, trying to slow his breathing, balance himself as well as he could for Killer Croc’s attack. The huge reptilian man leapt at him, bellowing, but Batman dodged sideways, slinging his last reinforced batarang at Croc’s back. The blade wedged in between two shoulder scales and triggered the electric shock circuitry. Croc contorted with another roar as electro-convulsive sparks flared across his body. Batman ducked to avoid the flailing arms, pulling out a bolas and used all his strength to launch himself onto Crocs back, wrapping the wire around his body. With a sharp tug, they both went over backwards and Batman rolled aside in the last second. Croc hit the roof, hard and Batman was on him, blows from his brass-knuckles connecting with his enemy’s ribs and face, heedless of Crocs jaws snapping at him._

  
\---

Flash was multi-tasking; Watchtower monitor duty and researching Central City gangsters at the same time. It was a good job he could type with both hands at super fast speed. There was some serious catching up to be done over the last couple of weeks of craziness and he didn’t want to lose track of what was going on in his own town just because he’d drawn the short straw of monitor duty. He sighed a little but there was no-one around to hear. It was only he and J’onn in the Watchtower anyway right now, and they were somewhat under-handed. Batman had taken off back to Gotham the moment they landed back on Earth a few days ago and Wally doubted they’d see him in the near future, not in the temper he’d been in. Superman had also left shortly after to see what had managed to go wrong in Metropolis in his absence, and John Steward was still on Phygar 8 representing the Green Lantern Corp in the planet’s political restructuring. With him and J’onn manning the tower, that left Diana and Hawkgirl to do everything else on the planet. Right now they were rescuing refugees and delivering aid packages to flood victims in Bangladesh.

Something caught Wally’s eye in the police report he was reading about a raided meeting between two crime kingpins in Central City last week. Anton Svobodnik was an old player in Central City, but his new business partner... Flash frowned; he recognised that name, Killian “Killer” Connolly, as well, but he was sure he’d never crossed paths with him in Central City before. Had he seen the name in one of the Gotham files?

Glancing at the main news monitors for a moment, Wally quickly minimised the file and went back to the main menu.

He stopped.

There was the main page with a file icon for each Justice League member. Superman, the Martian Manhunter, the Flash, the Green Lantern, Hawkgirl, Wonder Woman...

Six icons. _Six._

What?

He clicked back into the main directory and found the records for joint Justice League missions. There, the first file.

_“The Justice League was officially formed on May 15 th, the day after the first White Martian invasion was repulsed. The League served as a joint venture by several of Earth’s greatest superheroes, to provide a strong, diverse, multi-skilled team to combat both internal and external global threats and protect and defend the innocent across the world. Although the members were chosen and telepathically summoned by J’onn J’onzz, the idea for a permanent league of superheroes has been credited to Superman and all six founding members have played an equal role in the League’s creation and subsequent successes..._

Flash stared. He clicked on the next file. And the one after. Moved on two years, clicked on another. Soon he was flicking through pages as fast as the computer could handle, reliving each adventure, each near miss, each loss, each triumph.

There was no denying it. Batman was gone.

Well, gone was the wrong word. The records of his exploits in Gotham were still complete, but every suggestion that he had ever been associated with the Justice League had vanished. Someone or something had simultaneously been through and deleted every mention of the Dark Knight from the Justice League’s mission logs. Wally pulled up a file from a mission two months ago where he, Batman, Wondy and Lantern had been chasing down some Secret Society members hiding out in Shanghai. The robbery-turned-fight had led into the Shanghai World Financial Centre and Gorilla Grodd had dragged a hostage up into the tower in some blatant and extremely unamusing movie parody. Wally had followed, of course, and the beast had taken an unprecedented chance while he was distracted by the screaming woman to drop kick him off the side of the building. He’d been pretty sure Wonder Woman was on the other side of the city fighting Dr Psycho, and the Green Lantern and the Calculator were slogging it out way above their heads. He’d fallen only about ten floors when he had been forced to conclude his number was well and truly up, when Batman had appeared from nowhere and snatched him to safety. He later worked out the man had thrown himself off the tower after the falling Flash, risking both their lives in the hope that fate would find somewhere for his grapple line to fix on smooth vertical glass and steel. There was no way Batman could have known about the open window that eventually saved them.

Wally looked at the report. Gorilla Grodd’s attempts to kill the Flash were apparently thwarted by Green Lantern who flew the Flash to safety.

Bull. What the hell was going on? Who would do this, and why?

Just then, an incoming message flickered onto a small screen off to one side. He nearly didn’t notice it. With growing trepidation, Flash opened the communication, and suddenly he had his answer.

Then he ran to find J’onn, as fast as he could.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part 1


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Battle violence and descriptions of injuries

_Breathe his faults so quaintly_  
_That they may seem the taints of liberty_  
_The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind,_  
_A savageness in unreclaimed blood_

Hamlet 2.1  
 

Bruce was nowhere near finished when Alfred returned. After a few phone anonymous calls to the Gotham City Police Department to tell them the location of Croc and his accomplices, Bruce had started with the computer files. A mistake as it turned out. While the databases were important, one of only a few things that he intended to transfer and preserve, it would have been a lot easier to conceal what the running programmes were doing when Alfred came down to the cave. Although if he’d started by destroying his equipment, Alfred probably would have noticed that too. He also noticed with hindsight that the automated emails would alert others to his activities and they might try to interfere. Why wouldn’t his brain work?  
  
 It was odd. Bruce had prepared for this eventuality long ago, building back-doors and hidden codes into all the systems he’d helped to create, but his hands were still shaking slightly as he entered the command code to activate the emergency protocols, and he couldn’t attribute all of it to the poison. Lines of code flickered across the screen as the data drained from the hard drive. He watched his life slowly being deleted, and felt a little like drowning. He rubbed his forehead feeling beads of feverish sweat on the skin. Was he getting worse? It didn’t matter. He was wearing only a light hooded sweater and jogging pants but felt as if his skin was burning up.  
  
Alfred came down just as he’d finished smashing the computer’s hard-drives, disks and backups. He’d wiped them clean already magnetically, but he wanted no possibility that future innovations would develop the technology to reinstall the lost data. If there was any chance of recovery, physical destruction was the only option. The equipment lockers and workshop had already been cleared out into piles on the cave floor, organised by how they would be destroyed. Items to be burned or melted down were already piled by the incinerator; all standard batarang styles nos. B3 through B26, all the electronic communications/audio-visual equipment, medical equipment and drugs, the museum case memorabilia, tazers, empty utility belts, rebreather, parachutes, cowls and capes, and grapple lines. The second pile of objects included those that would explode if subjected to heat; namely all compressed gas capsules, laboratory grade acids and chemicals, electronic/exploding baratangs nos. BE27 – B50, and B60-85, plastic explosives, grenades and oxy-acetylene cutting torches. They’d have to be destroyed another way; he was considering dismantling the weapons and sinking them.

Bruce nearly wept with frustration when he heard Alfred’s step on the stairs. He thought he’d have more time. He wasn’t finished and didn’t dare stop before it was all gone. The thought of trying to explain why to Alfred made him feel dizzy with horror. It would kill Alfred to hear it. He turned away from the stairs and spotted amidst a pile of papers an old photograph. It had been taken a few years back when John Steward had given Diana a digital camera for Christmas and she’s insisted on taking everyone’s picture. This one had all seven founding members in it, Clark and Wally with an arm each around Diana and blindingly white smiles. Batman was skulking at the back of the group, his concession to the season was a frown that wasn’t a scowl.

As he stared into each face, he heard Alfred descend the first flight of stairs, his steps slow and cautious. The sight of the destruction must have been quite alarming from up there. He heard Alfred pause on the landing and quietly call out.

“Master Bruce?”

Bruce stood up slowly but didn’t turn around.

“Alfred.”

Alfred continued down the stairs, speaking cautiously.

“We appear to be somewhat in disarray, sir. May I enquire as to if we’ve had an intruder?”

Bruce stared out across the destruction.

“Yes, Alfred. But he’s finally leaving.”

Bruce let go of the picture of Batman with the Justice League and it fluttered onto the pile by the incinerator.

“Perhaps I could find someone to help you...tidy up.”

Alfred wanted him to call Clark. Not going to happen.

“No, thank you, Alfred. That will not be necessary.”

There was silence for ten seconds.

“I’ve just received a phone call from Master Dick, sir. He seemed rather concerned.”

Bruce didn’t reply but put his hand in his pocket.

“Apparently he and Miss Barbara have come to the conclusion that you intend to do something somewhat foolish. It appears they were correct.”

He snapped. “They have no...” Bruce stopped, willing himself calm. Don’t give in to the anger.

“I’m doing what has to be done.” He finally said, his back still to the stairs. He heard Alfred walk towards him across the cave.

“And what exactly is it that you are doing, sir?” said Alfred, and there was just a hint of steel in that tone.

Bruce didn’t reply, too busy controlling his heartbeat, but Alfred was angry enough for the both of them.

“You have no right, sir! People depend on you now, on him. You have no right to take that away.”

“It’s my life!” He snapped, trying to control his anger.

“Not any more, it isn’t!” countered the other man. “Not since people like Master Dick started following in your footsteps. Not since the Commissioner and the police picked up your first prisoner. Not since the first day you put on that cowl. Gotham, the Justice League, Superman; they all need you, sir. You’ve made them need you. ”

In just a few words, the anger seemed to have dissipated and now Alfred just sounded tired and disappointed.

“They shouldn’t,” said Bruce, bluntly. “And they’ll have to learn that lesson the hard way. Without Batman.”

He turned to face Alfred for the first time. Alfred’s eyes widened slightly at his appearance. He’d felt the bruising coming up on his face about an hour ago but hadn’t realised it was that bad.

“Whatever happened, sir,” said Alfred, firmly, “it wasn’t your fault. You can’t save them all.”

Bruce didn’t smile, though the situation was tragically ironic. “I know Alfred. But I’m making up for it now.”

Alfred made no reply and Bruce knew he was processing just what exactly Bruce had meant by that. He brushed the sweaty hair out of his eyes with a shaky hand and looked over Alfred’s shoulder at the destroyed Batcomputer. So much still to do. And he hadn’t decided what to do with the car. Give it to Dick? No, it was too recognisable. Suddenly there was a cool hand on his head.

“You’re burning up. Perhaps you should lie down for a bit.”

“I have to finish what I’ve started, Alfred.”

Alfred’s hand dropped. “Master Bruce, you’re destroying your life’s work. You need take a moment to calm down and think clearly. Please come back up to the house with me and we’ll wait for Master Dick to arrive-”

Bruce looked up. “He’s coming here?”

“Yes, sir, and I believe he wished me to try and contact Mr Kent in the meantime. Please, sir, just stop until they arrive. Whatever’s happened, we can sort it out then.”

Bruce gave a soft sigh and withdrew his hand slowly from his pocket. “I’m sorry Alfred. I can’t do that. I have to finish this, now.”

Alfred sighed, turning away, and Bruce moved silently.

It was but the work of a moment and he had Alfred’s back pinned against his chest, holding him firmly around the shoulders with his good arm as he quickly administered the hypo-syringe to Alfred’s neck. He held on securely as the drug took rapid hold, ignoring the slight struggles until Alfred went limp in his grasp.

“I’m sorry, Alfred.” Bruce said, laying the butler down, gently. He went back to work.

\---

 _“Stay down!” Batman ordered through gritted teeth, but at that moment Croc got in a swift kick that caught Batman in his aching ribs, tossing him aside. Batman lay stunned for a moment and watched helpless as Croc easily snapped the cable wrapped around his upper body. He looked down at Batman and laughed._  
  
_Laughed. Batman saw red for a moment, a thick fury fuelled by pain and frustration and tinged with blackness hovering at the edge of his vision. Suddenly, the grapple gun was in his hand again and before he was aware of it, there was a long moment of rage and colour and his pulse thundering and suddenly Croc was screaming as the four-pronged grapple hook, an evil little projectile weapon at a range that close, ripped through the flesh, muscle and bone of his shoulder. Batman braced his feet, feeling a tug as someone, maybe it was even him, activated the recoil and Croc was dragged back across the roof by the metal hooks in his body, screaming and writhing as the cable coiled up around his arms. Batman watched his enemy lie, shrieking in agony, at his feet and it felt good. He was so angry._

_He released the cable from the gun mechanism and quickly wrenched Croc’s limbs behind him with the thick line, and locked it off to a nearby grating using a carabiner. The mechanism was slick under his gloves and he honestly didn’t know who’s blood it was, his or Killer Croc’s. He breathed slowly, resisted the urge to tug the line a little tighter than absolutely necessary.  He crouched low over Croc’s trussed up form, and Croc turned his head, half whimpering and half growling. He thought at first it was through pain, but suddenly he realised it was laughter. Batman snarled back but it was too late._

_“We’ve won!” Croc gave a sniggering gurgle in his throat. “Whatever you do now, you’re finished. I’ve beaten you.”_

_The creature’s fetid breath was in his face, and he was laughing at Bruce’s helplessness. The brass knuckles smashed into Croc’s mouth before Batman could think to do anything else, and several of the creature’s teeth snapped off in a spray of blood. Croc gave a muffled scream. Batman stood up and walked away. He felt numb. Something was wrong. Croc would heal. That wasn’t the point. Croc would heal but there was something very wrong. He had had to get back, had to..._

_And then the access door burst open and five men ran out on to the roof top. He barely noticed them, his eyes seeming to focus only one thing. The terrified boy, barely older than eight, that the fifth man held with a gun pressed to his skull. A hostage. One of the gunmen was saying something, making demands, but he couldn’t hear them; his body reacted to the moonlight glinting off the metal barrels before his mind had worked out what they meant._

_Men with guns. Men bringing swift evil death, fear and terror to the innocent in the dark night. In his city._

_He saw red._

\---

_“Watchtower calling Superman.”_

_“Superman here.”_

_“Superman, it’s J’onn. I’m afraid something has happened.”_

_“J’onn, can it wait? I’m a little busy.”_

_“It could be serious.”_

A groan. _“I don’t think I want to know...”_

Quietly. _“I think you do. It’s Batman.”_

_“Transport, please. Now.”_

Superman flew from the transporter bay to the monitor womb instead of walking. He did not look happy.

“What’s happened? Is he hurt?”

J’onn did not turn away from the computer though Wally was flitting nervously around the screens and terminals.

“We’re not sure. An email just arrived; the original deleted itself just after Flash opened it, but he managed to make a copy.”

J’onn turned and handed Superman a paper chocolate wrapper, marked with a few short, terse lines in Wally’s super-speed scrawl.

_Batman’s association with the Justice League has been terminated henceforth. All records of past interactions have been deleted from public record and the Watchtower files. It is in the League’s best interests to deny any joint operations took place._

_Do not try to contact me._

“That’s all?” Superman demanded.

“Nothing more in the email,” Wally answered, with an uneasy shrug. “But Bats has somehow deleted himself from all the mission records too. Any idea what’s going on?”

Superman clenched his fist, subconsciously. “None. But I intend to find out.”

Just then, one of the screens lit up, and a soft beeping sounded.

“An incoming communication.” J’onn said, with a frown. “I doubt it is coincidence.”

He answered the call and put it on speaker. The room filled with the dull roar of an engine and whistling wind past the microphone.

“Justice League.”

 _“Yeah, J’onn, it’s Nightwing. I need to talk to Superman.”_ Dick’s voice was slightly breathless.

“I’m here, Nightwing,” Superman answered. “What’s going on?”

Nightwing didn’t waste any time. _“You need to get to Gotham; something’s happened to Bruce.”_

Clark raised his eyebrows in worry.

“What do you mean, something’s happened?”

 _“I don’t know,”_ answered Dick, and they heard the sound of swerving. _“You know he finally caught up with Killer Croc last night?”_

“Yes, I saw on the news,” said Clark, grimly. “Batman put him in the hospital.”

 _“Yeah. Well, after that Bruce went back to the cave and transferred all his databases to Oracle. And when I say all, I mean everything_. _When she found out this morning, I called Alfred; he said that Bruce had been hurt, and implied pretty badly. He thought Bruce was sleeping, not working. I told him the computers had been activated and asked him to go and check everything was alright. That was forty minutes ago; he didn’t call back and no-one’s answering the phone in the cave or the house. I’m on my way there now, but I had some bike trouble. Please, just make sure he’s okay.”_  

It was J’onn that answered him. “Superman’s already gone, Nightwing, but he will.”  
 

\---

  
The two thugs with automatics opened fire the moment he moved; sparks scattered across the rooftop as bullets struck metal and concrete. Two batarangs were in flight even as he threw himself forward; there was a satisfying grunt of pain, and then he was upon them, inexorable as death itself.  
  
One guy was down already gasping and a kick broke the second gunman’s wrist and then he was there, swirling darkness full of hard blows and compressed fury driving powerful kicks. He could hear nothing over the roaring in his ears but he felt the pulse of blood in his veins, the crunch of a sternum giving way under his heel, a strike up into a face that cracked the zygomatic bone followed by an elbow to dislocate the jaw...It was a thing of beauty, this dance of pain. Beauty forged through absolute rage that robbed him of everything but the raw instinct to hurt and break and inflict this retribution on those that would dare to infect his city with crime and threaten Gotham’s children.

_He blinked back the fog of anger as he realised no-one was attacking. Four bodies lay on the ground and their pitiful groans and whimpers curdled in the cold air. There was one gunman and one terrified child missing. In his blindness for battle, he’d lost sight of the person he was trying to protect. He strode past the injured thugs without a second glance, and glanced down in the alley below, and there they were. The last gunman, the coward that had fled back down the stairs at the very sight of him was slinking into the dark, clutching a small figure to him. Brave enough when his helpless victims were at the other end of a Beretta._

_The spare grapple line pulled tight on crumbling stone and he was flying, the shadow of his cape eclipsing the fleeing man in darkness just as he reached the mouth of the alley. The man shouted something obscene and then bullets were whistling in the air; there was an explosion of sound and sharp sting in his head as a bullet skimmed the cowl’s plating and he lost his grip just about four metres from the ground. Everything was a blur of swirling sodium street-light yellow and alley black shadows, and then fireworks behind his eyes as his back struck the wall and his right shoulder gave way with a sickly pop._

_Through a haze of rage he saw the thug’s retreating figure and knew the man could not be allowed to escape. He gave the shoulder a quick assessment; as he expected, a simple anterior dislocation. Before he had a chance to think twice, he leaned his shoulder in against the corner of the building and holding his right arm close with his left hand, slamming the joint forward into the brickwork with one violent move. The humerus slid back into place and he thought for a moment he was going to throw up, but the pain bought not only movement back to his arm, but a clarity he’d been missing on the roof and a focus for all that rage._

_The man was still running but now he was alone. The child had vanished. Batman closed fast and a batarang sliced at the gunman’s legs. The thug stumbled and fell onto his back and had time for a short scream before the darkness descended._  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part Two


	3. Chapter 3

_Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ..._  
_In your orisons,_  
_Be all my sins remembered_

Hamlet 2. 1

 

Bruce muted the proximity alarm and turned back to the incinerator with a scowl. He’d miscalculated somewhere. He’d been relying on Wally’s short attention span to miss the ghost programme rewriting the Watchtower archives, but the message he’d sent might have been noticed sooner than he’d expected. Either that or Dick had managed to deactivate the device Bruce had installed on the transmission on Nightwing’s bike that remotely stalled the engine in case of emergencies. It certainly seemed he’d underestimated someone.

He closed the incinerator door and heard the roar of the flue gases as the last of the Batsuits crumbled in the extreme heat. Although Nomex was fire-resistant, the Kevlar base weave would start to break down at about 900 Fahrenheit and the combined fabric would quickly decompose. He couldn’t see it, but his imagination was enough. He felt a little faint. That would be the lingering tachycardia.

Cautious footsteps echoed around the cave as someone entered under the waterfall, and he could tell by their sound that it was Superman and not Nightwing. The intruder paused just at the edge of the river by the haphazardly parked car.  
  
There was silence for ten seconds, then Clark said;

“No-one’s going to hurt you, you know.” His voice sounded tense but tired.

Bruce turned back to the piles of scrap. The incinerator would be done in eighty-two seconds. “I know.”

“You don’t need that,” Clark added, without moving.

Bruce didn’t reply, but his eyes were drawn for a moment to the kryptonite ring resting against the skin of his hand. The green glow it gave off cast a sickly pall across his tendons and bones. He wondered if Clark would have flown over and dragged him up to the house if the ring wasn't there.

“Where’s Alfred?”

Bruce turned but kept his back to the incinerator, as if defending it.  "In the med bay. He’ll be fine in a few hours.”

It hurt when Clark went over to check. Did he really think he’d do anything to injure Alfred?

“His pulse is a little slow,” announced Clark from the med bay as he bent over Alfred’s still form. “What did you give him?”

“Twenty mg of Quazepam.”

“That’s a very high dosage, Bruce.” Clark sounded angry now.

“I know what I’m doing,” he replied calmly. “He’ll be fine.”

Clark left the med bay but didn’t come any closer. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.

“I read your email. That was some goodbye.”

 _Damn it_.    
  
"It was necess--,” He started to say but Clark cut him off.

“Necessary? You can’t treat people like this, Bruce! People who care about you. If you have a problem, you don’t have to push us away. Was force really the only way you could think of to deal with this?” Clark didn’t have to gesture to the unconscious Alfred or the glowing kryptonite to make his point.

“Apparently.” Bruce answered bluntly, though his heart was racing.

Clark pushed a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Lord, Bruce, just talk to me. Please.”

The gas jets in the incinerator powered down as it finished its load. He should start with the next items. He didn’t move.

 “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Clark exploded. “Nothing to talk about! Bruce, you’re incinerating your life, or the only part of your life you care about! And you really can’t even give me an explanation?”

Bruce picked up several folds of parachute Terylene and walked over to the incinerator. He’d only just reached it when he heard Clark had followed him, his voice much closer, a little more strained and quieter now.

“Dick thinks you’re dying.”

The words came as a shock and for a moment he couldn’t reply.

“He didn’t say it, but I could tell that’s what he was thinking. He thinks you’re cutting ties before you--”

“I’m not,” Bruce couldn’t help but clarify. “He’s wrong.”

He opened the incinerator and stuffed the parachutes inside. When he turned back, Clark was suddenly very close.

“Don’t--” He warned, but Clark ignored him. He could see the beads of sweat on Clark’s face, made sallowy by the glow of the kryptonite.

“Then there’s only two other options that are coming to mind right now, Bruce. Either you’re being mind-controlled into doing this, which seems not only unlikely but remarkably inefficient. Or someone died last night and you’ve decided to take all the blame on yourself.”

“Back off, Clark.” He didn’t specify physically or metaphorically but took a few steps away from Clark himself, closing his fist about the ring as if that would make any difference.

“So you do care?” Clark’s tone sounded a little cold. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Clark folded his arms again. He looked pale. “Too late, Bruce. Stop shutting me out, and let me help.”

“You can help me by keeping out of my way. I have a job to finish.”

“You can’t save them all, Bruce.”

Bruce heard himself laughing, but there was no joy in it. “I know. That’s why I have to end it. End _him_.”

“Who?” asked Clark, though he must have known.

“The Batman.”

 

Clark was silent for a moment and Bruce marched away, putting more distance between them. He still needed about another eighty-five minutes to finish here. And then...

“Who died?”

“Watch the news,” he snarled.

“I did,” said Clark. “And I don’t remember a mention of anything for you to beat yourself up over. You caught Killer Croc. Well done.”

Bruce clenched his hands so tightly he felt his knuckles crack, and shook his head.  “Then they just haven’t found out about him yet."

Clark sighed. “Bruce. Even if you couldn’t save someone, this isn’t the first time someone’s died on your watch. It happens. It’s heartbreaking and tragic but it’s _not your fault_!”

Bruce spun around, his pulse thudding and anger boiling over.

“It is when it was me that killed them!”

He could tell he’d caught Clark off guard and took a savage pleasure in the look of disconcertment on that open, honest face.

“What? Of course you didn’t--”

“I killed a man,” Bruce confirmed, and suddenly the anger drained out, leaving him feeling numb and empty. “I killed him,” he repeated. “I'm a m--”

He stopped, throat closing up. It seemed he could commit murder, but not say it.

“Croc’s not dead, Bruce,” Clark sounded as shaky as he felt. Probably the kryptonite. “You did quite a number on him and they sent him for surgery in some high security prison medical facility but he’s not dead.”

“Not Croc,” said Bruce, and suddenly he had to sit down on the floor. “He had five thugs with him, Thorne’s men. They had a hostage, a boy. Four of them rushed me on the roof top. They had guns and I was so angry. I lost control.  I incapacitated four and one took the kid and made a run for it. He tried to shoot me and then I caught him and I strangled him to death with my bare hands because he threatened a child and I was angry.”

“Bruce...” Clark whispered, and slid down to the floor too, with his back against an empty cabinet. He stared blindly across the cave and they sat in silence.

Then Clark was shaking his head. “No Bruce, you couldn’t. I don’t believe that.”

“Believe it. It happened. I became a murderer and Batman became a fallacy.” 

Clark swallowed. “And all this?” He gestured at the destroyed cave. “What are you going to do?” 

Bruce felt incredibly heavy, as if the weight of his crime was dragging him down. “I forfeited the right to freedom when I took a man’s life,” He gazed past Clark at the distant waterfall. “As soon as Batman is destroyed, I’m going to turn myself in.” 

Suddenly Clark was on his feet again. “No, Bruce. This is all wrong. Can’t you see? You wouldn’t do this. You have too much control and too much compassion. You were saving a child’s life! You must have made a mistake about what happened.” 

Bruce stared at Clark. “I felt that man’s larynx crushing under my fingers, Clark. It’s quite distinctive.” 

He made a move to stand up and his balanced failed him. The cave swum nauseatingly in front of his eyes and he fell back against something warm and solid that appeared at his side.  

“Take it easy...” said Clark, carefully holding him up. As soon as he had his balance back, Bruce pulled away. Clark’s hands were trembling too now from the proximity to the kryptonite, and he looked nearly as bad as Bruce felt.  

“For God’s sake, Clark,” Bruce snapped and snatched the ring off his hand. Striding over to the desk, he threw the kryptonite inside its lead box and slammed the lid closed. Then he marched back over to Clark and pushed the box into his hands. There was a couple of seconds of silence, before Clark took in a sudden, sharp breath. Bruce thought it was a vocalisation of relief until Clark spoke again.  

“Bruce...you’re hurt pretty badly. I can see...a head injury, and serious abdominal lacerations... your shoulder cartilage is torn...” 

Clark squinted at his shoulder and reached out to touch the swollen joint. Bruce pulled away with a scowl, but Clark caught his right wrist at super-speed and held it firmly. 

“Let go,” Bruce warned low. “Don’t make me have to take that kryptonite back.”  

Clark didn’t seem to be listening, but was staring at his arm intensely. After seven seconds he looked up, alarmed. 

“There’s something in your blood, too. Something I haven’t seen before. I can’t quite focus on it yet...” 

Bruce sighed. “It’s Crane’s fear toxin, but modified.” 

“What does it do? Apart from increasing your temperature and putting your heart-rate through the roof, that is. Isn’t the antidote working?” 

Bruce shook his head and pulled his arm free. “It’s helping block the effects, but it’s not perfect.” He looked at Clark, heavily. “The drug induces anger. Blind rage.” 

“Enough to make you kill?” Clark stood back and stared at him. “I don’t believe that, Bruce. I won’t.” 

And Clark’s continuing refusal to accept the horrible truth that was tearing his reality apart turned out to be the last betrayal he could face. Clark’s thoughtless faith battered down his defences and all that burning rage building up inside exploded from him. He leapt forwards; blinded by fury, frustration and despair and punched Clark as hard as he could.

\---

Bruce opened his eyes slowly, and the first thing he noticed was the peace. That roaring of angry voices in his ears had quieted at last, and his pulse no longer thundered sickeningly along in his chest. He felt odd, dull and muggy like the first few moments of awakening after drinking yourself into unconsciousness the night before, when you’re still not sure if your skull is still attached to your body or not. 

He risked moving, rolling slowly onto his side and feeling parts of his body ring in with complaints. The stitches in his abdomen were burning, his head ached like fury and his stomach more nauseous than it had been in a long time. But it wasn’t all bad; his shoulder was coolly numb and he no longer felt feverish.

He eased himself up into sitting and concentrated on the room around him. He was in his own bed in the manor and the angle of the light through the curtain indicated early evening. There were voices downstairs and footsteps, and after a few moments, Clark appeared in the open doorway. He knocked on the doorframe.

“Hey. Mind if I come in?”

Bruce ignored him, knowing he would anyway. Clark did, turning the lights up low and moving over to the long curtains. Bruce poured a glass of water from the jug at the bedside and swallowed it in small sips. 

“You’re an idiot, you know?” Clark announced suddenly.  

Bruce finished his water without a word.  

“Would it really kill you to let someone else help you? You don’t have to do everything on your own.” 

“You’re angry,” Bruce noted, putting the glass down. 

“How perspicacious,” Clark snapped. “But if you think this is angry, you should see Dick.” 

“How’s Alfred?” Bruce asked low, feeling a twinge of shame. 

“Asleep,” came the terse answer. “Dick’s with him. He’ll be fine.” 

“I only meant to give you the kryptonite,” Bruce said. That twinge had turned into a full ache of guilt and suddenly, trying to explain himself seemed terribly important. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I knew you wouldn’t let me explain. You’ll have to find someone else to keep it; Diana would be my recommendation, as her previous history suggests she is usually more resistant to mind control than J’onn--” 

Clark was shaking his head. “I gave it to you for a reason, Bruce, and that reason still stands. I trust you.” 

Bruce blinked. “You can’t. Not anymore. Last night--” 

Clark hooked a heavy wing-backed chair with one ankle and pulled it over easily, sitting down. “Yes, Bruce. Last night. Tell me what happened.”

He sounded like a cheap psychiatrist. Bruce scowled, and Clark added; “Just humour me.”

“An informant. He told me Killer Croc was working for Thorne. Just hired muscle, but he meant to work his way up the pecking order,” Bruce started recount slowly, but soon memories flickered back into life in his mind like fireflies as the fog lifted. “I heard rumour of a move going down last night to take out the Biedrzycki Brothers; they’ve been operating out of Robbinsville for a few months. It didn’t take much intimidation to find out Croc was among the group picked out for the hit. I started out by --”

He stopped as his mind began to move faster than he could speak. It didn’t make sense; nothing about the situation did. Croc’s behaviour was atypical, Thorne’s action against minor players like the Biedrzyckis ill-timed and careless. If he could just...

“Crane,” He finally spat out. “It was Crane and Thorne, all along.”

In the corner of his eye he could see Clark nodded but he didn’t look at him.

“It should have been so obvious. They were in it together from the start. The break out, the hit...They were all staged. Just to get to me.” Bruce felt sick with disgust, and curled round his bent knees. It hurt a little but he relished it.

“They engineered the new toxin especially for you,” Clark said softly. “Fear doesn’t work on you, Bruce. You are too strong to ever let fear control you completely. So Crane tried his hand at anger instead, and had Croc deliver it straight to you.”

“Croc’s claws...” Bruce remembered, hazily. “He had some sort of prosthetic titanium tips fused to his claws. That’s how he cut through the suit. Last time Croc bit me, I was only infected with fear toxin because Crane had been pumping Croc full of it in Arkham and it was transferred from his saliva into my blood. But Crane’s now behind the bars instead of in front of them. There’s someone on the Arkham staff on Thorne’s pay roll. They must have acted as the go between for Crane to develop the new toxin...” He was getting ahead of himself.

“There were micro-voids in Croc’s synthetic claws,” Clark confirmed. “Gordon told me this afternoon. And they pulled samples of the toxin off too. Relax,” he added as Bruce tensed, “I destroyed all the traces of your blood they'd got, and no-one saw.”

It shouldn’t have worked, Bruce knew. Crane’s plan was a ridiculous one, so convoluted in its conception, so riddled with flaws in its execution. It should never have worked. Crane had done well choosing Croc as the stooge, one of the few of Batman’s only big time villains that he shouldn’t have needed to use his brain to defeat. He’d been lured in and trapped like an amateur. He didn’t realise he’d spoken out loud until Clark answered.

“It wasn’t your fault Bruce. You were exhausted after that off-world mission, we all were. After the last three weeks the League has had...it’s amazing you were still functioning at all, let alone able to pick up on a plan as bizarre as this.”

Bruce wasn’t listening. Croc had been right last night. He and Crane had won. He, Batman, had been completely deceived and a man had paid for Bruce’s arrogance with his life.  Now Bruce would repay that crime with his freedom. Not that he was under any illusions about how long he’d survive inside after turning himself in. He gave himself seven days at best, and that was if he even made it as far as sentencing.

He rolled over onto his side and pushed up off the bed with his good arm. Clark frowned at him.

“Do I even want to know where you’re going?”

Bruce pulled on a dressing gown over his pyjamas and turned towards the door. “As far as I recall, I still have most of the weaponry, everything in the hangar, and all the lab and workshop materials to destroy. I’ve wasted too much time already.”

“Bruce.”

He should have ignored Clark. He should have brushed off the warm hand on his shoulder and walked away, gone back to the cave, finished his work and brought his last criminal to justice. He meant to.

Clark turned Bruce to face him, but Bruce kept his eyes down. “Listen to me very carefully, Bruce,” said Clark, slow and calm, and there was no way on Earth he could have denied that voice then.

“You did not kill anybody. Do you understand me? There was no body--”

“Probably went into the river...” he muttered, but Clark’s voice cut over, firmly.

“There was no blood other than yours and Crocs. No injured thugs by the stair door. No bullet holes in the alley wall, no shell casings anywhere. Not even a stray hair.”

“Forensics could have missed them.”

“I went over the whole crime-scene myself, Bruce. I checked every stairwell, window ledge and alley in the street. There was no-one on that roof except for you and Croc.”

“The boy. The hostage.” He managed, feeling more dazed than if Clark had just struck him.

 Clark was shaking his head. “There never was a boy, Bruce.”

He shook his head mutely.

“Why is it so hard for you to accept that you’re not a killer?” said Clark, but his tone was sad, not confrontational. “You know the fear toxin causes hallucinations of things you fear, panic based on deep established phobias. The rage toxin causes hallucinations of things you hate. For you, that was men with guns threatening terrified children. Thugs preying on the helpless.”

Bruce twisted out from under Clark’s hand and turned away to the window. He pulled the drapes aside, pushed the door open with his left hand and stepped out onto the balcony in the fading evening light. The stone was cold under his feet and there was a slight tang in the air that he knew meant there’d be rain before midnight. He closed his eyes and watched the terrified hallucinated hostage vanish into the shadows.

“How long have you known?” He asked, quietly, looking out over the low light and long shadows of the garden. Clark came over beside him, but not touching him, and leaned his elbows on the stone balustrade.

“I guessed from the start,” Clark answered. “It’s not in you to kill.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Bruce snarled. He saw Clark turn to look at him and closed his eyes. “So the man I attacked was an hallucination,” he continued. “But my intent, that was real. If he’d been a real thug, I would have strangled him. Croc was real, and I shot him with a grapple gun, Clark.”

Clark winced a little. “Croc will recover.”

“You know that’s not the point,” He retorted. Then, with a sigh, said; “This can never happen again.”

“Manufacture a better antidote then.”

“Don’t be flippant,” Bruce snapped, and Clark instantly looked contrite. “I just...need you to believe in me.”

 “Bruce!” Clark almost spluttered. “That was all I ever did! I believed in you, more than you did! You have so little faith in yourself that you just gave up, surrendered. I knew you didn’t kill that man, not in your right mind, not without some external force or mind control. Even before I saw the evidence, or lack of it, for myself in that alley. What more faith do you need?”

 “The faith that I know myself better than you do!” Bruce shook his head. “I need you to know that I am fallible, Clark, and that I have a darkness in me. Don’t disagree, turning a blind eye to it won’t make it untrue. I need you to know that one day, what I thought happened last night could happen.” He caught Clark’s eye, and held it firmly. “And I need to know that when it does, you’ll do what is necessary to take me down.”

They stayed frozen in tableau for ten long seconds before Clark slowly sighed. “Fine. But there are provisos. I won’t do anything to hurt you. I will always choose to do what I think is right and only once I’ve seen the evidence for myself with my own eyes. I won’t follow blind orders, Bruce, but you know you only have to ask for help and I’ll be there. You know that. You don’t have to do everything on your own any more. That’s the agreement. Take it or leave it.” 

Bruce was silent for a moment, then nodded, curtly. He was looking out over the garden when a small, lead-lined box appeared in front of his eyes.

“That promise?” Clark said, holding out the box. “It goes both ways.”

Bruce hesitated for a bare second. Then he took the lead-wrapped kryptonite and tucked it away into his dressing gown pocket. They watched the fading light and growing shadows across the evening garden for a while. Bruce broke the silence, voice low.

“I don’t suppose I hallucinated incinerating all the Batsuits...”

Clark gave a sudden laugh. “No, sorry. You did a thorough job. But you must have the designs down to pat now after so many rebuilds. Shouldn’t take you and Lucius Fox long to whip a few more up.”

“Yes,” said Bruce, “Except the design specs were all on the computer I smashed.”

“Then it’s a good job you transferred everything to Oracle, isn’t it?”  
  
Clark straightened slightly, and gazed back through the wall. “I see Alfred’s awake and Dick is making tea. Come on, I think you have some apologies to make.” He  started back into the house, but paused on the threshold as Bruce called his name.

“Clark.”   
  
Clark turned and looked back. Bruce shifted his weight slightly.

“Thank you.”

Clark smiled.  


 

 

___

The end


End file.
